


It's Not Unusual 6: Country Music, The Music of Pain

by Mallory Klohn (malloryklohn)



Series: It's Not Unusual [6]
Category: X Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-03
Updated: 2009-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malloryklohn/pseuds/Mallory%20Klohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skinner tries to fuck the pain away, but a little case of Whiskey Dick holds him back.  Meantime, Mulder's lust overcomes his trepidation once again, and the stalker is... well, but I don't want to spoil the ending for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not Unusual 6: Country Music, The Music of Pain

**It's Not Unusual VI:**  
**Country Music, The Music of Pain**.

by Ethan Nelson

  


_His dog was run over, his wife up and left him/And after that he  
got sacked from his job/Lost his arm in the war, was laughed at by a whore/Ah,  
but still not a sniffle or sob_...

"Somebody turn that crap off," Walter grumbled from his booth in the  
darkened pub. It was past one on a Monday night, and the place was almost  
empty now, save for himself, another man in another booth, scribbling furiously  
in his notebook, a pair of barflies up at the bar itself-- who argued the  
merits or lack thereof of _The Dukes of Hazzard_\-- and one lone asshole  
by the jukebox who dropped quarter after quarter on the absolute worst  
shitkicker music the genre had to offer, like a man possessed.

Walter was the only nobleman there, it seemed, using the pub for its  
intended purpose rather than for some lesser pursuit, drinking himself  
into a stupor from which he hoped he would never recover. He'd been there  
for well over three hours now, knocking back shot after shot of the cheapest,  
vilest whiskey available. As a side interest, he occasionally lapsed into  
bursts of conversation with himself, invariably punctuated by a bitter  
"Goddamn it."

_In jail he was beaten, bullied and buggered/And made to make license  
plates/Water and bread was all he was fed/But not once did a tear stain  
his face_...

Mulder would never approve of this, and that was what made it so worthwhile.  
He could almost _see_ the agent's nose crinkle in disgust when a hot  
blast of boozy breath was delivered on one sloppily executed kiss. When  
the inevitable hangover struck the following morning, Mulder would buck  
tradition and become an early riser for the occasion, slamming cupboards  
with previously unexplored zeal, bellowing in the shower, tossing curtains  
open to admit the morning light as if he hoped to foil a vampire. And as  
he tortured Walter thusly, everything he said, everything he _did_,  
would be underscored by a thin streak of "you asked for it, baby." Mulder  
had the hatred of drunkenness that only attacks the reformed.

Mulder. The bastard was probably out pursuing a healthy relationship  
even as Walter mourned the agent's passing from his life. _What the hell  
is wrong with a little dysfunction?_ He'd picked a great time to suddenly  
decide he wanted to live like a normal person, that was for sure. Now that  
Walter had accepted this change to his own life, now that he had cast the  
stalker from his mind and concentrated on making his lover happy, _now_  
Mulder needed a man (or a woman, god damn it) who would provide him with  
something in a lighter key. Dinner in a decent restaurant, from time to  
time.  
Visits home to meet the parents. Sex in a bed. _At night, in the dark,  
no handcuffs or firearms anywhere in the room. It's sick._

_Doctors were called in, scientists, too/Theologians were last and  
practically least/They all agreed sure enough; this was sure no cream puff/But  
in fact an insensitive beast_...

The AD's head shot up when he heard this last from the jukebox. The  
man who'd been guarding it was nowhere to be seen. _Somebody's probably  
sinking that prick in the Potomac. If I'm lucky_. From the sounds of  
things, the song wasn't even halfway through. If his alcohol consumption  
wasn't enough to sicken him, listening to the song in its entirety would  
likely do the trick. The only hitch was this: the jukebox sat at the opposite  
end of the pub. Walter was an optimist, when he could manage it, but he  
was by no means sure he could walk that distance without incident. _I  
should be a riot at closing time._

_He was removed from jail and placed in a place/For the insensitive  
and the insane/He played lots of chess and made lots of friends/And he  
wept every time it would rain_...

With a low groan, the AD hauled himself to his feet. The room swam before  
him, tilting crazily. His stomach heaved. His head throbbed. Yet he remained  
standing, the fact of which left him smug, if a little queasy. _I shouldn't  
be standing. I shouldn't be breathing, for Christ's sake_. Still the  
song continued. It was too much to endure. He took his hand from the tabletop,  
weaving slightly without its support, and commenced a slow stagger across  
the bar, mumbling all the while. He hadn't made it a quarter of the way  
when his legs gave out from beneath him and he tumbled to his hands and  
knees.

"Shit, shit..."

The bartender leaped the counter and was at his side immediately. "All  
right, buddy, you've had enough," he said, yanking Walter roughly to his  
feet. He was boneless now, though. He stayed upright only because the bartender  
held him that way. "Time to say good night."

"No. Wait. Shit, I just--"

"It's all right, Clancy, he's with me."

Walter swung his head around to face his benefactor, the man from the  
other booth. Tall, dark, and dressed all in black, he looked at Walter  
with a mixture of pity and some lesser emotion Walter remembered vaguely  
from his youth. He recognized it, labeled it, and railed against it. He  
was The Forbidden Fruit, the AA member from the wrong side of the tracks.

"Oh God, it's Johnny Cash."

The man smiled. "I like to think I have more going for me than the Cash  
Man, at least as far as genetic endowments are concerned."

"He's with _you_?" The bartender glared back and forth between  
them.

The stranger's booth was on the opposite end of the bar. Clearly the  
only way Walter was with him was if they'd had a fight or they indulged  
in some kind of sick stalker/stalked relationship. _How fitting_.

"He's with me," the man said firmly. "We'll be leaving soon, right?"

"I want a drink."

"I know. Come back and sit down," he said, taking custody of Walter.

He was tall and reedy, like Mulder, but broader, somehow. He was Ichibod  
Crane for the _GQ_ set. "Listen, Clancy, if I know this guy, he is  
_dying_  
for a cup of coffee right now."

"You _don't_ know me," Walter said, reasonably.

"Yeah I do, don't I... uh..."

"Walter."

"Walt. I know you _real _well." He gave the bartender a look so  
meaningful even Walter didn't miss it. "Coffee, please. One for me, too."

"No problem."

He helped the AD back to his own booth. When the bartender was out of  
earshot, he whispered harshly "That's a gun, isn't it? What the hell are  
you doing with a gun?"

"What?" The man squeezed Walter's left side; his piece dug into his  
ribs. "Oh. Yeah. My gun."

"Look, I don't want any trouble."

"Then you picked up the wrong drunk," Walter said.

"Nobody is picking anybody up, all right? I was just--"

"Off the floor," he said.

"Oh." He flushed. "What about the gun?"

"I'm... I'm with the FBI."

His eyebrows shot up. "Really? What division?"

Walter looked down at the notebook that still lay open on the table.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a crime writer with the _Post_," he said.

Walter coughed out a laugh. _Leave it to you, Walter. It's too bad  
you can't drink that coffee out of your Mulder/Skinner mug_. "Perfect,"  
he said.

"Hey, I'm not going to tell anybody."

"Uh-huh."

"I was just making conversation."

"Right." They were interrupted by the arrival of the coffee. After he'd  
stalled long enough sweetening and creaming it, he looked back up at the  
writer. "Let's start with _your_ name."

"Andy Shaw."

Walter frowned. "With the _Post_?"

"I do fact-checking, mainly," he admitted. "I haven't made my name yet."

"Walter Skinner," he said, extending a hand. "Assistant Director and  
embarrassing souse."

"That's quite a scoop."

"I thought you'd like it."

"Why were you getting up, anyway, if you didn't want to leave?"

"That song."

"What?"

"That _song_," Walter growled. "About the guy whose dog was hit  
by a car."

Andy smiled. "You're not a country fan?"

"No."

"You sure drink like one, Walt, I have to hand it to you."

"I'm in touch with my inner redneck." He grimaced when he sipped his  
coffee. Maybe it was just his advanced level of inebriation, but it seemed  
a lot stronger than it should be.

"So, we celebrating, or mourning?"

"Mourning," he said without thinking. "Celebrating."

"Ohhh yeaaah. You're _definitely_ had enough."

"I haven't even started," he retorted. "When I was in the Marines--"

Andy held up his hands. "Oh, hey, save it, all right, man? I know I  
look young, but I'm _way_ too old to be listening to your drunken  
'when I was your age' stories."

He quirked a brow. "How old _are_ you?"

"Twenty-nine."

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, sipping his coffee. "I'm old enough to  
be your father."

"That explains your end of the conversation," Andy smiled.

Walter lapsed into a sullen silence, now not even broken by his expletives.  
Andy was a keener observer than was Mulder, clearly. He took his cue and  
immediately turned his attention back to his notebook. The AD made no attempt  
to decipher the man's writing. By the looks of things, it would have been  
illegible even if it faced him. In this, he and Mulder were more alike.

By the time Walter had begun to openly compare the two men, Andy was  
so deeply engrossed in what he was doing that the AD could have tested  
the texture of his hair without incident. It was dark, curly, and short,  
somehow the perfect complement to the strangest eyes Walter had ever seen.  
They were red. It was the damnedest thing. Dark red with green highlights,  
both enormous and completely cynical. They were like Mulder's in this last  
alone.

Mulder would never have scooped him off the floor of the bar. Or, if  
he did, he'd make sure Walter understood what a trial it was, what a disappointment.  
The thought of him setting the AD in a booth with some coffee and forgetting  
about him was so inconceivable as to become surreal.

_But then, Andy hasn't had to put up with any of your horseshit_.

It was ridiculous to compare them. Pointless. Andy didn't want him;  
why should he? Mulder, of course, didn't want him either, but he had at  
one point. Hadn't he? Andy had saved him, though. Why? Why offer him sanctuary,  
why give him coffee? Why, for God's sake, tell the bartender they were  
_together_?

_Yeah, you're right, Walter, you poor drunk bastard. It was love at  
first sight. The minute he saw you keel over in the middle of the dance  
floor, he knew you were the man for him_.

"I need more coffee," he said, starting to rise.

Andy grabbed his arm. "I'll get it. _Sit_."

Why did it matter whether or not Andy was interested in him, anyway?  
Walter was so newly on the rebound that he still had bruises on his ass  
from when Mulder had dumped him on it. He knew he would eventually have  
to start over, find someone else. That, or become a hermit. But did he  
have to start tonight?

"Here you go, man," Andy said, sliding his mug across the table. The  
Doors' _L.A. Woman_ began to play as he took his seat.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Andy was young, reasonably intelligent, and he probably had never seen  
a corpse in his life, crime writer or no, nor anything more unusual than  
fairy rings on his grandmother's lawn. And he was attractive, that was  
always nice. He couldn't possibly have a twisted personal history the equal  
of Mulder's. No nightmares, no insomnia, no brooding silences over anything  
more complicated than another Bulls loss. _If you try hard enough, you  
may even convince yourself you're glad Mulder left you._

And the agent was probably at home right that moment, modeling his new  
collarless shirts before settling down for his nightly reading of _Men  
Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus_.

"How are you getting home?" Andy asked.

"What?"

"How are you getting home? Clancy likes me, but he's not going to let  
you sleep here."

"Driving."

"Are you nuts?"

"I feel better now--"

"Why don't you just pull that gun out and eat it right here, man? Jeez,  
I can't believe you--"

"I'm fine," he bit out.

"You're plastered."

"I'll sober up."

"Not in an hour." He snapped his notebook shut. "I'll drive you."

"I can take a taxi."

"Come on. It'll do my heart good to know you didn't sneak away to another  
bar after I go."

"I could do that anyway."

"Yeah, but this way I can still deceive myself about it."

After much maneuvering, Andy managed to haul Walter out of the bar,  
across the parking lot, and over to his car. Through a combination of inebriation  
and resignation, Walter let his new friend do all the work, which in his  
case was significant. _Kid's stronger than he looks_. He folded the  
AD into the passenger's seat and hopped in the driver's side.

"All right," he said, starting the car. "Where do you live?"

The AD stared sightlessly out the window.

"Walter?"

"Alexandria," he said quietly.

"Aw, shit." He pounded the steering wheel. "Shit. All right. Sure."  
He swung the car around and headed for the bypass.

"Crystal City."

Andy stomped on the brakes. "Look, I don't need this. I've had a long  
night. The last thing I expected was to wind up playing good Samaritan  
to some guy with an automatic weapon. I have to be up early for work. So  
if you could just--"

"You can stay with me."

"What?"

Walter met his eyes. "Stay with me."

He sighed. "Stay with you in..."

"Crystal City."

"Alexandria's out, I take it?"

"Yeah."

"All right. Thanks."  
   
   


*** *** ***

  


Somebody was always taking his pens. The ones he kept in his briefcase  
tended to stay there, but there was the odd business lunch at which he  
was the only properly equipped federal officer at the table, and nine times  
out of ten, if he lent one out, he never saw it again. Those pens he kept  
at the office were as disposable as Kleenex. The pen he left at night was  
not necessarily the one he found in the morning. For this reason, Walter  
was not prideful when it came to his stationery. Brand names, point sizes,  
and ink colors were meaningless to him. He took what Kim gave him without  
complaint, and never gave it another thought unless one exploded on him.

This was how he knew, without question, that the pen he held in his  
office that morning did not belong to him. It was a Mont Blanc, far and  
away the most expensive pen he'd ever held. Made of black resin and gold,  
it looked awkward in his big paw, as ludicrous a thing as he could imagine  
with the colossal hangover he suffered from.

He'd found the pen in his briefcase when he'd arrived at the office,  
nestled in with his usual assortment of Bics and Staedtlers. Rolling it  
back and forth between his fingers, he tried to remember how it had gotten  
there. He remembered drinking, and some terrifying music, and the _Post_

writer. _Fact-checker_. Andy. The ride back to Crystal City. Fumbling  
with the keys to the apartment. And then... nothing. The next thing he  
knew, he'd been a naked man alone in a distressingly rumpled bed, and Andy's  
pen inexplicably in his briefcase. It seemed like a bad sign. Or a good  
one, depending on how he looked at it.

He said he had an early morning. _If you don't have time to write,  
you leave behind your pen?_ The ritual differed from person to person,  
he supposed. Mulder would have left his underwear. But then, he'd been  
sleeping with Mulder. Walter didn't know what had gone on the night before  
with Andy, but if he _had_ been able to sustain an erection with that  
much hooch in his system, he was definitely in the wrong line of work.  
_Should  
I be embarrassed, or relieved?_ It was too complicated to work out now.

His intercom buzzed. "Yes?"

"Mr. Skinner, Agent Mulder is here to see you."

Walter stiffened. "Does he have an appointment, Kim?"

"Yes, sir."

He blinked. He hadn't expected that.

"Mr. Skinner?"

The AD fought the urge to refuse him, to plead a hectic schedule, or  
strep throat. Something. _Anything_. "Send him in."

Mulder looked like he'd been on a bender for the last week. Hair disheveled,  
unshaven, and wearing a suit that would have looked slept in if the agent  
himself had looked like he'd gotten any sleep, he resembled nothing so  
much as an upscale wino on an Aqua Velva high. He moved listlessly, eyes  
downcast, feet shuffling. Walter was flummoxed.

Part of him wanted to enjoy this moment. Mulder had done him harm, and  
he certainly felt worse than the agent looked, but the fact that he _looked_  
better than Mulder did gave him some small satisfaction. He had to be taking  
the break-up worse than Mulder was. Anything else was senseless. It was  
Mulder who had expressed such displeasure over the relationship, Mulder  
who hadn't offered him a chance to make things right. It had just been  
end of story, good night Irene, and now _Mulder_ looked like he'd  
been hit by a bus every hour on the hour for the last seven days? Where  
was the fairness in that? What gave him the right?

"Agent Mulder. Didn't Scully make it in this morning?"

"No. She's got the stomach flu." He seated himself in one of the chairs  
by the door. And did not speak again. _What the hell is this? Nothing  
about a possible Bigfoot pregnancy? Nothing about tripping on fumes that  
were piped into their office ventilation system?_

"Pardon me for asking, Agent Mulder, but is there a purpose to this  
visit?"

The agent mumbled incoherently.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I need your clearance to investigate this case," he said, louder now.

"Sight unseen?" Walter asked when Mulder made no move to approach him  
with the file.

"No, sir." Still he made no move to stand.

_Is he stalling?_ "Agent Mulder, I have a very full schedule  
today. I really don't have the time to sit here and play Twenty Questions  
with you. If it'll expedite this meeting at all, I'm more than happy to  
ask you if it's bigger than a breadbox, but you're going to have to give  
me a clue."

Mulder rose from his seat and stumbled across the office to Walter's  
desk. He tossed the file at the AD and flung himself into the nearest chair.

Now Walter understood why Mulder had been reluctant to approach him.

From a distance, he had looked merely cadaverous. Up close, he looked  
like the undead. His skin had what Mulder himself would call a Reticulan  
cast, grey and waxy. His features were drawn tightly, as if under the continuous  
assault of migraine. Even his tie was unkempt, the underside longer than  
the over, the knot crooked. The tie itself was eerily tasteful.

Walter's immediate instinct was to explode with a stern "what the hell  
happened to you?" In spite of his agent's haggard appearance, there was  
every indication that such a remark would be unwelcome. Worse, answered  
with a bitter "what do _you_ care?" Instead of this, instead of sending  
Mulder home, instead of stripping him bare and introducing him to the sandalwood  
massage lotion he still had in his desk, Walter shook his head and opened  
the file.

It was run-of-the-mill, as Mulder's requests went. Strange disappearances,  
coupled with some reports of livestock mutilation and a sudden run on back-issues  
of _Swamp Thing_ at the local comic shop.

Could be something, could be nothing. Mulder had abandoned all attempts  
to charm the AD into signing his 302. In place of what was usually a very  
entertaining-- if completely meaningless-- request form, Mulder had scratched  
out a few terse words, distressingly legible, asking to investigate.

It was likely the closest they would ever come to trying to remember  
who got which wine glasses after the divorce.

He knew it was the wrong way to go about his job, and something he would  
eventually have to stop, but the only thing that came to mind when he stared  
at the file was _It'll get him out of my way for a few weeks_. He  
sighed and lifted his pen to sign the form.

"When did you get that?" Mulder asked.

Walter looked down at Andy's pen. His jaw dropped. "I-- uh..."

Mulder smirked. "Don't tell me you're having some kind of mid-life stationery  
crisis."

"Actually," he said stonily, "It belongs to a friend. He left it in  
my briefcase this morning when he left the apartment."

The agent looked stricken. "Out with the old, in with the new?"

"So it would seem." They exchanged a long look, during which Walter  
savored the play of emotions over Mulder's face. _So beautifully expressive.  
So passionate. So gone. Goddamn it_. "If there's nothing else..."

His jaw tightened. "No. There's nothing else." He scooped up the file  
and turned to leave.

"Mulder."

The agent turned. Walter sucked in a breath. That look, what was that  
look? There it was, open, searching, that look, the closest they ever came  
to telepathy, in that look. What was it?

"Never mind. Give Agent Scully my best."  
   
   


*** *** ***

  


"Hello?"

"I hold in my hand a pen that looks like it was used to sign the Constitution.  
I don't suppose you know who it belongs to?"

"Walt! I wasn't sure if I'd hear from you."

"You're playing pretty free and easy with your stationery for someone  
who doesn't expect to get it back."

"I figured I could just... ask for it. If you didn't call."

Walter fingered the note in his hand, discovered when he'd opened his  
Day Timer. **CALL ME!!!** "I can't imagine who would resist."

"I like you better sober," Andy said. "Where are you?"

"At home."

"You found your car all right?"

"I was drunk, Andy. I wasn't comatose."

"By the time I got you into bed--"

"I don't want to know. What are you doing tonight?"

"Well, you have my pen," he said.

"Your point being..."

"I can't do anything without it. It's like a security blanket."

"What you do with your pens in the privacy of your own home is none  
of my business."

Andy was silent.

"Hello?"

"You're kind of a weird guy, aren't you, Walt?"

_That's the first time anyone has ever said that to me_. "Occasionally."

"I could come over," Andy said.

"You could."

"We could order in some pizza or something."

"We could."

He expelled a sigh. "Am I invited, or not?"

"You are." _I think_.

"All right. I can be there in... half an hour. Make it an hour."

"I'll see you then."

Walter spent his grace period frantically arranging his apartment into  
some semblance of normality. He'd made no attempt to clear out Mulder's  
things, and now that he needed to do it, they were everywhere. First to  
go were the back-copies of _Fate_ and _The Skeptical Inquirer_

that sat on his toilet tank next to the incense burner. His assortment  
of flavored Motion Lotion was the next to go, followed by his silk scarves  
and soft-tipped cat o' nine tails. The Scrabble dictionary was stowed away  
under the bed. His copy of _The Bridges of Madison County_ went directly  
into the trash. The AD paused when he opened his nightstand. Their latest  
bottle of Astroglide was there, as if they'd ever made love anywhere near  
the bedroom, since the beginning. Mulder usually kept one somewhere on  
his person, for this reason. Yet there it was. Walter left it there.

He washed his face, chilled some wine, and changed into something slightly  
more casual, so quickly that he still had time to remove Mulder's collection  
of B-movies and alien autopsy videos and his half of the CD collection  
before Andy finally knocked on the door. The fact-checker stood negligently  
in the doorway, smiling lazily at him in a way Mulder had never quite perfected.  
There was always something else going on with him, _always_. He wasn't  
sure if Andy's focus was a pleasant change.

"Hi."

"Hi." Andy slunk across the hallway and favored Walter with a lingering,  
closed-mouth kiss. The AD stood, frozen, unable to respond.

"You shy?" he asked when he pulled away.

"Not usually," Walter muttered.

"No problem, man," he said good-naturedly. "Hey," he said, turning around.  
"You cleaned the place up."

"Are you implying that I'm a slob?"

"No, not at all. Just..."

He raised a brow. "Just..."

"The way you dropped everything the other night, I figured it was a  
habit."

"It's not. Would you like some wine?"

He blinked. "You have any beer?"

"I think so."  
They settled into the evening comfortably, chatting about nothing in  
particular. Andy wasn't as quick on the attack as was Mulder, but he was  
no less intelligent. Walter had never given the matter much thought when  
he and Mulder had been together, but now he enjoyed the interplay without  
the confrontation. Without struggling for the upper hand. If he enjoyed  
it the way a man enjoys Cream of Wheat after a lifetime diet of bacon and  
eggs, well, it was still enjoyment. _Either one is probably better for  
my blood pressure_.

Even lulled as he was, he couldn't fail to notice Andy's gradual shifting  
over to Walter's side of the sofa. He knew where this was heading, he'd  
known it when he'd made the call. He'd as much as asked for it. Hell, he'd  
admitted it to Mulder before it had even become an "it." Still, he wasn't  
entirely prepared for it when Andy caged him against the back of the sofa  
and slipped his tongue into the AD's mouth. Walter jerked back, as far  
as space permitted.

"Wait," he said.

Andy fastened his mouth to Walter's neck, licking and sucking gently.

"Wait, nothing. You've been making eyes at me all night."

"It's my glasses," he gasped. "I need to update my prescription."

The fact-checker frowned in annoyance and slid Walter's glasses off,  
setting them on the coffee table. He gave the AD a challenging look, then  
set to work unfastening his shirt.

The essential wrongness of the situation assailed him. This was the  
wrong head tucked beneath his chin, the wrong mouth probably giving him  
a hickey on his neck, the wrong hand tucked possessively inside his pants--  
_Oh,  
Jesus!_ He bucked involuntarily, almost surrendering before he jerked  
away, breathing hard.

"I can't do this," he muttered.

"Oh, believe me, you _can_. I've never met anybody who could kiss  
like that--"

"I wasn't even trying," he said before he could stop himself.

"I know. You're _volcanic_, man." He leaned in again, but Walter  
leaped off the couch.  
"I'm not ready for this."

"I know ways to get around that," Andy purred. He got off the couch  
and followed Walter's backward retreat. "Come on, baby, don't be coy,"  
he said when he had the AD backed against the wall.

Dimly, Walter recognized this game. Attack and retreat. Divide and conquer.  
_Hard  
to get_. In recent months, his knowledge of it had become so complete  
that he could have delivered a dissertation on the topic if he could find  
a school that offered the course work. Somehow, it lost its thrill, playing  
it now. Playing it with this man, and not with Mulder, who enjoyed the  
chase itself more than the victory, at least half the time.

Andy had Walter's shirt open now, his belt magically vanished, his nipples  
hard from the fact-checker's teasing mouth. He rhythmically massaged the  
AD's mutinous erection as he worked lower, the zipper of Walter's slacks  
sliding open as if of its own volition. Walter's head fell back, shaking  
back and forth.

"No," he said when Andy yanked his pants down around his knees. "_No_.  
You don't understand."

He made a disgusted noise, sitting back on his heels. "So enlighten  
me, Walt. You're standing here almost naked, trying to poke my eye out  
with your cock, doing everything but _begging_ me to throw you over  
the counter and fuck you. What am I not getting here?"

"I've been seeing someone," he admitted, miserably. "He'd never forgive  
me if I did this with you."

Andy frowned. "Where is he now?"

Walter hesitated.

"Walt?"

"... he left me," he said quietly.

"Ohh..."

"Oh nothing. You don't understand."

"I understand more than you think."

"I'm sorry."

"What was this?" he demanded, gesturing at the living room. "Was this  
a set-up?"

"No. It was... dinner. I--"

"Dinner. Right. And you flirting with me--"

"I wasn't flirting!"

"Trust me, man, you were flirting." He sat on the floor. Walter left  
his pants where they hung. "Did you invite me over to make him jealous?  
What, did you tell him to come over at nine, and I could maybe answer the  
door wearing a sheet?"

"No! Andy, I--" he broke off when he heard the knock on the door. His  
eyes widened. "Oh my God. Where are my glasses?" He staggered toward the  
sofa, pants still around his ankles.

"I'll get it," Andy sang, heading for the door.

"No! Oh God..." There was no way he could reach Andy in time, no way  
he could even have his pants done up in time. So he replaced his glasses,  
and turned toward the door to face certain doom, shirt god alone knew where,  
pants open, still erect and panting.

In that moment, as Andy moved in slow motion to admit his visitor, Walter  
recognized the look Mulder had worn in his office for what it had been.  
It was easy, now that the agent was out of sight and Walter was seeing  
the world through a haze of terror rather than a haze of pain. Oh, he knew  
that look, he knew it to so intimate a degree that he liked to imagine  
others could only dream of seeing it. Pure, unadulterated, animal lust.  
It was a look he had seen many times before, and the look the agent wore  
now, for a split second, before he took in Andy's flushed face, and Walter's  
comprehensive disarray.

Mulder surprised him now, now when Walter had fully expected him to  
walk out, and in spite of the fact that Mulder had continually surprised  
him throughout the duration of their relationship in its many forms. "AD  
Skinner, if you have a moment, I need to discuss something with you."

"You should have called first, Agent Mulder."

"I know, I'm sorry. I wasn't sure if--"

"I'm Andy Shaw," the fact-checker said, extending his hand. "The designated  
hitter."

Walter winced as he fastened his pants. "It's not what you think, Andy."

He smirked over his shoulder at the AD. "I thought you'd be saying that  
to him."

"I'm afraid it _is_ what _you_ think," he said to Mulder.  
"Mainly. Where the hell is my shirt?"

"Try the kitchen," Andy said, grinning.

Walter shot him a look and headed inside. By the time he'd returned,  
Andy was nowhere to be seen, and Mulder was standing on the dining room  
table, examining Walter's light fixtures.

"They're 15-watts," the AD said. "Mood lighting."

"Get in the shower," Mulder said quietly. "I should be done here by  
the time you've soaped up."

Walter gaped at him. "That's it? You desert me for weeks, trash my date,  
and then bang! I'm supposed to get naked for you?"

Mulder glared at him. "Shut the hell up, will you? Jesus Christ..."

"Fuck you, Mulder. This is insane, even for you."

The agent leaped off the table and was in Walter's face in seconds,  
so quick, so lithe, the AD couldn't track his movements. "You listen to  
me," he said in a low voice. "There could be bugs all over this apartment.  
I _know_ there's at least one camera. Now get your ass in the shower  
and wash him off, and when I'm done here, I'll join you. All right?"

"Mulder, we didn't--"

"I don't care. If you say one more word about it, I'll leave right now.  
Right fucking now."

Walter resisted the urge to tell him to go. This was outrageous, after  
all this time, after everything Mulder had put him through. He knew he  
hadn't been an exemplary lover, but this was over the line. He hated being  
kept in the dark, about anything, he hated this helplessness, his ignorance,  
he hated this feeling of blindness, no idea what was going on or how it  
would be resolved. This entire situation went against every control freak  
instinct he had. But there was Mulder, looking beautiful, looking hungry.

And he was looking for cameras in the AD's apartment.

"I should call Andy," he said weakly.

"If you call that guy while I'm in your apartment, Walter, I'll shoot  
you, strip you naked, and toss you off the balcony, I swear to God."

Throwing up his hands in disgust, the AD stomped out of the dining room  
and headed for the shower. Knowing Mulder as well as he did, he took his  
time undressing and testing the water before he stepped in the shower.  
If the agent thought he would only be soaping up by the time Mulder finished  
checking every sofa cushion and cassette case for bugs, he was thinking  
of his own shower habits, not Walter's.

He'd just rinsed the shampoo from what remained of his hair when the  
shower door slid open to reveal Mulder. Still clothed, all traces of anger  
gone from his face, he was the very picture of misery.

"I thought you'd be done by now," he said.

"I thought you planned to join me."

"I thought about what you said."

"You picked _tonight_ to work on that?"

"Fuck you, Walter." He eyed what he could see of the AD through the  
crack in the door. "Hurry up," he said, gesturing at him.

Walter made short work of the rest of his shower, finally emerging in  
his robe, under a cloud of steam. Mulder sat on the bathroom counter with  
a large manila envelope and three small, smashed cameras. The AD turned  
on the fan and settled his glasses on his face.

"Where did you find those?"

"Kitchen, balcony, and storage closet," he smirked. "They know me better  
than I thought."

"Who the hell is _they_?"

By way of reply, he opened the envelope and created a photo spread on  
Walter's counter. Shot after shot of them two of them fucking in every  
major venue in the greater DC area, it seemed.

"These are copies," Mulder said. "I found the envelope on my coffee  
table last week."

"Who took them, Mulder?" His voice shook.

"Irene Desmond and Harry Flannagan. I don't know who he is."

"They're the ones who've been stalking us? Sending the donuts? Rigging  
my computer?"

"The ones who switched my fish, who thumped me in the head with a brick--  
what's going on between you and Raggedy Andy, there?"

"Why did you ditch me?"

"Was he sucking you off when I knocked on the door?"

"_Why did you ditch me?_"

"He's a little young for you, isn't he? What is he, twenty-five? Granted,  
I can see why you might enjoy his stamina--"

"Goddamn it, Mulder, why did you do it? Because of these?" he gestured  
at the photographs. "You think I care about that?"

"I think you should."

"If I cared about being caught, I'd never have done it."

"Then you're even more fucked up than I am. Do you have any idea what  
it could mean for you if this got out?"

He smirked. "I'd get invited to more parties?"

"You think this is a joke?"

"How can you think it's not? Look at this!" He indicated a shot of the  
two of them outside a local movie theater, Walter on his knees with Mulder's  
cock in his mouth. What neither man had realized at the time was that their  
adventure had taken place against a massive poster frame bearing the heading  
"Coming Soon." "You're the one who taught me just about anything can be  
funny if you look at it the right way, Mulder."

"Yeah, well, you'll have to forgive me, Walter, but I don't see the  
humor in this. I find new bugs as quickly as I get rid of the old ones.  
I found a camera in my _car_, for Christ's sake."

"That must have been a tricky set-up."

"Am I in the Twilight Zone here, or what?"

Walter sighed, hopping up on the counter next to Mulder. "What did they  
say to you?"

"What do you think? They told me to stay away from you. They threatened  
to expose us."

Walter snickered.

"Shut up, all right? It's not funny."

"They threatened to expose the men who once had sex on an abandoned  
hot dog cart in downtown Washington?"

"It's not funny!"

He sighed. "Why do they care?"

"She said she was afraid someone would find out. Other than her. She  
said she believed in my work, and she wanted the X-Files to stay open."

"You already have a reputation as a crackpot, Mulder. How is this going  
to make a difference to you?"

"It could make a difference to you," he bit out.

Walter leaned against the mirror. "You're a smart boy, Mulder. Tell  
me: what are you missing here?"

"What are you talking about?"

"She's threatening to expose us, because if we don't stay away from  
each other, it could threaten the future of your division."

"And?"

"_And_, Mulder, if she _did_ expose us, don't you think _that_

would threaten the future of your division?"

"I--"

"You're a _moron_!" he shouted, sliding off the counter and stalking  
out of the bathroom. "You put me through three weeks of hell for _that_?"

"I--"

"How fucking stupid can you be, Mulder?" he said, rounding on the agent.  
"Jesus Christ! What's the best way to deal with a blackmailer?"

"Call their bluff. But Walter--"

"I know, I know. It's not the kind of thing you want to take a chance  
with. Could you not have, oh, I don't know... _mentioned_ this to  
me?"

"No, I couldn't! I knew you'd react this way, I knew you'd blow me off."

"Then why the hell did you come here tonight?"

"I had to," he growled. "I had to see you. I thought--"

"You thought what?"

"I thought maybe you and Randy hadn't done anything yet, maybe I could...  
fuck, I don't know."

"His name is Andy."

"Oh, I don't give a rat's ass _what_ his name is. How long did  
you wait, Walter, a week? Did you clear out my stuff after you got home  
from work that first night?"

"I did that today," he said. At Mulder's look, he amended, "But I kept  
everything."

"Well, that's a relief."

"What were you planning to do, anyway? Keep me at arm's length for the  
rest of your life? Hang on to me with yearning looks and late-night visits?  
What, am I supposed to think of you while I jack off twice a week until  
I retire?"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you, too, Mulder. You're the most fucked up person I've ever met.  
This is beyond even you." He stomped down the hallway and down the stairs,  
muttering to himself all the while.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to drop my robe, shoot myself, and jump off the balcony.  
I think it's a suitable, topical end to this entire situation."

"You should write a note. Here," Mulder smirked, heading for the coffee  
table. "Looks like Sandy left his pen again."

Walter lunged at him, and the agent let him, smirk still firmly in place.

Together they tumbled onto the sofa in a tangle of limbs and a hail  
of curses.

"God damn you, Mulder. Why don't you just slit my throat and get it  
over with?"

"Too messy."

The AD propped himself up on his elbows and gazed down at Mulder.

The agent's eyes were dark, his mouth dark and moist and open for him.  
He wanted this so badly, it was a living ache within him. He leaned in  
for a kiss, and Mulder's nose bumped against his glasses. "God damn it,"  
he muttered, wrenching them off and tossing them on the floor. Before Mulder  
had a chance to make any more wiseguy remarks, Walter struck, gripping  
the agent's head in both hands, kissing him hard. Mulder squirmed beneath  
him, pushing his robe open further, his hands roaming Walter's back. He  
made the most amazing sounds, as if Walter was already inside him. The  
AD rocked his hips experimentally. He wanted Mulder to make no claims of  
being coerced.

"Don't leap off the balcony, Walter," he gasped, tearing his mouth away.

"Why not?" he smiled.

"I ran out of gas just before I got here. I need a ride home."

Walter captured his mouth again, gently now. Mulder stilled beneath  
him, kissing back, exploring the AD's mouth with his tongue. He tugged  
the robe from Walter's shoulders and undulated against him. Walter moaned.  
Friction, on every part of his body, from Mulder's pants, from the cool  
night air that came through the balcony door, from the agent's hands.

Everywhere was touched, even as he touched everywhere. It was an affirmation,  
a statement, a promise. A vow.

"It's not just sex and bickering, Mulder," he said, peeling off the  
agent's shirt.

"I know," he murmured.

"Good." He licked the hollow of Mulder's throat.

"There's the gunplay," Mulder said.

"Mulder..."

"The occasional fist fight."

"Mulder."

"And who doesn't _love_ those conferences?"

"Do you _want_ me to start shouting at you again?"

"Depends on the context," he said, helping the AD with his pants. "I  
mean, 'fuck you, Mulder!' doesn't have the same ring to it as 'fuck me,  
Mulder!'"

"I hate you."

"We don't usually use that one. I can't say I care for it. I just--oh..."  
He broke off when Walter sucked a nipple into his mouth. "I like you better  
this way."

"Stupid with lust?"

"Well, yeah, but apart from that."

"I was too rough, the last time."

"It has its merits," he gasped when Walter stroked his cock. "It was  
the context."

"You thought it was the _last_ time."

"It cast a pall," he admitted.

"Do you think you could see your way clear to _asking_ me the next  
time something like this happens?"

"There won't be a next time," he said.

"Then just... just don't dump me and leave my office while I'm not wearing  
my pants, all right?"

"It's okay to dump you as long as you're fully clothed?"

"Forget it. I--" Mulder wrapped his arms around the AD and rolled.

They hit the floor with a combined grunt. Before Walter could say anything  
else, Mulder began roving his body with hands and lips, taking his arousal  
to fever-pitch. He kissed and licked his way along the AD's torso until  
he reached his navel. He plunged his tongue inside, but moved no lower.

"Is this the same erection you had when I got here?"

"Of course it is, Mulder. Jesus Christ, what did you think I was doing  
in the shower? I was--" _I should be done by the time you've soaped up._

He flushed. "If you wanted me to jack off, you should have said something."

"I don't want anything to do with his erection."

"Technically, it's my erection, Mulder."

"But he gave it to you."

"For God's sake, it's an automatic response. How am I supposed to--"

"I suppose it would have happened if Cancer Man had his mouth on your  
cock," he said. "Or Krycek."

"Nobody had their mouth on my cock, all right? What is it with you and  
that?"

"You're the one who's always accusing me of an oral fixation." He absently  
stroked Walter, frowning intently.

"What? Does it feel different?"

"It's tainted," Mulder insisted.

"I _showered_. Mulder..."

Mulder licked the head roughly, probing its opening with the tip of  
his tongue. Walter propped himself up to watch. The agent's eyes gleamed  
at him. _Tainted. For Christ's sake_... "Oh..."

"I'm going to have to perform some purification rituals," Mulder announced.

"Keep your leeches to yourself."

"Nothing like that." Hands firmly on Walter's hip, he sucked the head  
into his mouth. His tongue lashed it, swirled around it, until Walter was  
ready to plunge all the way into the agent's throat, suffocation or no  
suffocation. Gradually, Mulder sucked more of him inside, never allowing  
Walter the slightest thrust of his own. The agent was totally focused on  
his task, not even squeezing Walter's balls as he sometimes did. He just  
sucked, and sucked, still holding the AD down, until his back was slick  
with sweat and drawn into an arc, his hands and feet clenching convulsively.

"Please, Mulder. _Please_."

Mulder gave him a feral smile. "No, I don't think so. Not with a sullied  
erection."

"Oh, fuck. Shit. Mulder, come _on_."

"Get up," he commanded, setting the example. "I want us to try something  
new and radical."

"Believe me, Mulder, blue balls is not new to me."

"Come on." He led Walter back up the stairs and into his bedroom. He  
didn't turn on the bedside lamp.

"Ooh," Walter said, watching Mulder turn back the blankets. "Kinky."

"You have no sense of adventure," Mulder accused. "Millions of people  
fuck on mattresses every night."

"Millions of people smoke, too. Millions of people watch _Walker:  
Texas Ranger_. Millions of people eat pork rinds."

"What's your point?" Mulder asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"My point, Mulder, is akin to something your mother always said when  
you were a child. If millions of people want to eat pork rinds and fuck  
on mattresses, that doesn't mean you have to."

"Actually, that's _exactly_ what my mother always said."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me in the slightest." He rolled Mulder  
onto his stomach, settling a pillow beneath his hips. Walter lubed him  
slowly. He wanted Mulder to feel at least a fraction as tortured as he  
did.

The agent obliged by moaning piteously each time Walter shied away from  
his prostate, each time he removed his hand to apply more lube, each time  
he kissed only slightly.

"Oh, God, Walter, please."

"With my tainted erection?"

"You didn't fuck him." Walter was silent. "Did you?"

"Of course not."

"You wanted to."

"No, I wanted to fuck _you_. All I could think about while he was  
here was that pathetic look on your face that day in my office."

"_Pathetic?_"

"Give me a break, Mulder. It was pathetic and you know it."

"Kind of _longing_, maybe..."

"Pathetic," he repeated, parting Mulder's legs and positioning himself  
between them. "Full-blown, hair-pulling, teeth-gnashing pathetic. I couldn't  
help but pity you, even after you crushed me like a bug."

"I didn't! You were-- ah!" Walter sank into him with one hard thrust.

"I was what?" he gasped, moving gently now.

"Oblivious," he moaned. "You just sat there, glaring at me, while I  
was tearing my heart out over you--"

"What was I supposed to do? Beg you to come back?"

"You-- you could have-- oh God..."

Walter collapsed on top of Mulder, thrusting deeply, quickly. He bit  
the agent's neck, sucked his shoulders, clawed his arms, and rocked his  
hips frantically, both anxious for his orgasm and terrified of it, of the  
completion.

"Don't leave," he growled.

"What?"

"You came here for this."

"I'll stay for some of that pizza."

Walter laughed, and bucked, until Mulder howled beneath him, pushing  
back so hard against him that he raised them both from the bed. Just as  
quickly, he crumpled onto the mattress, Walter's weight pressing him here.

"Don't leave," he mumbled into Mulder's shoulder.

"I won't."


End file.
